


Everything Else Is In The Wash

by SnitchesAndTalkers



Category: Bandom, Fall Out Boy
Genre: Anal Sex, Blow Jobs, Domestic Fluff, Donald Ducking, Fluff and Smut, Grouchy Patrick, Irritating Pete, Laundry, M/M, Panties, Silly, Smut
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-14
Updated: 2017-07-14
Packaged: 2018-12-02 04:40:14
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,287
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11501952
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SnitchesAndTalkers/pseuds/SnitchesAndTalkers
Summary: "Pete, just do the fucking laundry, you manipulative pervert."Patrick doesn't feel as though he's asking for much. An equal division of household labour, just like they talked about.





	Everything Else Is In The Wash

**Author's Note:**

  * For [laudanum_cafe](https://archiveofourown.org/users/laudanum_cafe/gifts).



> _This_ is what comes of silly chats on tumblr. laudanum_cafe I have nothing but respect for your ability to come out with this shit...

_Goddammit, Pete._

Those words must scamper across Patrick’s mind a dozen times a day.

“Write a chore chart, Patrick,” he hisses sarcastically, rooting through the dresser. “We need an equal division of household labor, Patrick. I promise I’ll do my fair share, Patrick… Pete!”

The house is silent. Patrick is pissed as hell as he stomps down the stairs, through the kitchen and out onto the deck. Pete is, of course, sun worshipping. Stretched out like a fucking panther, all black hair and tattoos on honey soft skin.

“Pete,” Patrick snaps tersely, arms folded. “We need to talk.”

“You sound angry,” Pete begins, not rolling over. “I’m not engaging with you if you’re just going to yell…”

“Peter, roll the fuck over and look at me,” Patrick is too hot. He’s too hot, he’s fucking sweaty all over and he does not have time for this shit right now. 

“Fine,” Pete huffs dramatically and flops onto his back, pushing his shades up into his hair as he runs his eyes up and over Patrick from toes to hair then bounces back to his eyes. “How can I help?”

“Why do I have no clean underwear?” He glowers as Pete raises a lazy eyebrow.

“Oh, you’re Donald Ducking,” Pete flicks an appreciative glance at Patrick’s cock under the hem of his shirt. “Nice.”

“I’m Donald Ducking,” Patrick begins through clenched teeth. “Because I have no clean - _fucking_ \- underwear.”

“Bummer,” Pete wiggles his toes a little and takes a deliberate sip of water. 

“I have no clean fucking underwear,” Patrick continues, ire - and blood pressure - rising. “Because the person that asked me to write him a chore chart hasn’t done the goddamn laundry.”

“Trick,” Pete begins soothingly, the tone guaranteed to do _anything_ but fucking soothe Patrick. “Do you really _need_ underwear?”

“Yes,” Patrick’s teeth are still clenched. Dental plan be damned. “Because it’s hot, I have the sweatiest ass this side of Lake Michigan and I don’t want my dick to chafe.”

“You’re such a diva,” Pete rolls his eyes. Patrick swore, after Warped Tour back in 2005, that he wouldn’t hit him again. Every day Pete seems to find a new way to test that resolve.

“Pete. I need clean underwear,” he reiterates sharply. “Do the laundry.”

“I’m pretty sure it’s your turn,” Pete shrugs.

“No!” Patrick explodes. “ _You_ chose the green squares! I gave you the choice, we sat down and I said “Hey, Pete, green squares or blue?” and you were all “Hey, Patrick, I’m gonna go green because it goes well with my skin tone” and I was like “Cool, dude, sounds great, so just check this every day” and you…” He trails off. “Dude, seriously, stop staring at my cock. My eyes are up here.”

“I’ve made my choice,” Pete grins widely, that million dollar smile. “Wait right there.”

Patrick doesn’t wait, he follows Pete with a petulant sigh, back up to their room where Pete begins to scavenge through his drawer.

“Your shorts don’t fit me,” Patrick points out with an irritated huff. “I’m not spending the rest of the day picking them out of my ass.”

“I can think of better things to put in your ass,” Pete mutters. Patrick’s mind wanders to the gag they keep in their special toy box under the bed. “Here!”

He emerges, triumphant, a pair of lace panties twirling from the end of his finger, a wolfish grin on his lips and a predatory gleam in his eye. Patrick sighs deeply and reaches past him, grabbing a pair of Pete’s older and rattier shorts in the hope they might be slightly stretched and yanking them up past his hips.

“Pete, just do the fucking laundry you manipulative pervert.”

*

It’s been three days. Patrick won’t back down.

The tender skin of his ass has been red and chafed since Pete - that weasly little fucker - emptied out his drawer of anything but his tightest and most snugly fitting underwear. Every time Patrick complains he just tugs those fucking panties from his pocket and holds them out without a word. 

Patrick mustn’t smack him in the mouth. That’s spousal abuse. That’s _bad._

He also won’t wash the fucking dishes that are stacked perilously by the sink - Pete’s days and insomniac nights measured out in bowls of Lucky Charms, the pink marshmallows all bloated and caked to the sides like sticky, sugary barnacles because he doesn’t like them. 

Do the dishes is in a green square dammit. He _already_ does all of the cooking anyway, why the hell _should_ he load the dishwasher?

The head of his dick is on fire, rubbing painfully against the zipper of his jeans. That shithead hid all of his sweatpants too so it’s jeans or bare assed and he won’t give Pete the satisfaction of the latter. In a moment of desperation he grabs his phone.

“Hey man, what’s up?” Joe greets him.

“Joe, dude, I have something of an embarrassing question for you,” he begins.

“If you need help busting Pete out of handcuffs again could you at least cover him up some before I get over there?” Joe sighs.

“No, nothing like that,” Patrick reassures his friend. “I just… I need some underwear.”

There’s a long, baffled pause on the end of the line.

“Okay. What?”

“I need to borrow some underwear from you,” Patrick clarifies.

“Is this, like… A sex thing?” Joe asks, warily.

“No, it's a basic human kindness thing. Pete won’t do the laundry,” Patrick explains. “I have, like, diaper rash or something and-”

“Not exactly selling it to me here, buddy,” Joe cuts him off. “Just go buy some you stubborn little asshole.”

“No!” Patrick insists. “Because then he’s won!”

“How is that winning?” Joe - bless his pure fucking soul - is trying to be understanding.

“Because then I've _invested_ in winning. Which means I lose,” Patrick wonders how the fuck that isn't obvious.

“I'm hanging up now, Patrick.”

“Joe, no!” Patrick implores - begs, really - Joe really is his only chance of winning. “Just wait a second-”

“The two of you are totally fucked up,” Joe informs him, hanging up.

Patrick turns with a sigh and finds Pete lounging against the doorway, panties dangling from his fingertip, eyebrows raised. He has no idea how much of the conversation his husband heard. Amber eyes give nothing away.

“This is what I get,” he mutters darkly. “For hitching my wagon to the first asshole that fingered me.”

*

By day five, Patrick is uncomfortable enough to cave. But not a classic cave, oh no. That scheming fucker won't win that easily. He waits until Pete showers to rummage through the pocket of his pants and extract the crumpled ball of satin and lace, slips into the guest room and pulls them on. 

Surprisingly comfortable, he notes appreciatively, very uh… _supportive_. He takes a quick glance in the mirror over his shoulder - holy fucking _shit_ , his ass looks fucking _adorable_ in these things. He's pretty sure he'd fuck himself right now given half the chance. His jaw falls slack in relief as he drags his jeans up and revels in how fucking comfortable everything feels once again.

With a smirk, he heads downstairs.

It takes Pete the better part of two hours to work out what's going on. He returns from his shower scowling suspiciously, patting his empty pocket with pursed lips. He won't _ask_ where the panties are because then he'll lose. So, he follows Patrick around the house frowning thoughtfully.

It's not until Patrick stretches up, reaching for the cumin on the top shelf as he sets about preparing dinner that Pete lets out a triumphant “I fucking _knew_ it!”

Patrick rolls his eyes before he lowers from his tiptoes, before he turns around. His shirt is dragged up by his stretch, jeans slipping a little lower on his hips and, he knows, a band of lace revealed just above his waistband. Pete strikes like a fucking snake, covering the kitchen in four or five strides, hands grasping greedily at Patrick's hips as he makes weird, breathy noises, half giggles, half horny little moans.

“Oh Trick,” he sighs against his husband's neck. “Tricky baby, you've gotta let me see. C’mon, show me…”

Patrick takes a moment to smile at the olive oil on the shelf at his eye level before turning and folding his arms.

“No.”

“N-no…” Pete stammers, bewildered. “The fuck do you mean, _no?”_

“I mean no,” Patrick quirks an eyebrow. “You deaf, Wentz?”

“But… but…” Pete is bewildered, all puppy dog eyes and pouting lips as he makes a swiping grab at Patrick's crotch. “We exchanged _vows!_ I have… marital _rights!”_

Patrick plants a hand in the centre of Pete’s chest, punctuating each word with a firm shove back across the room.

“I - don't - think - so.”

“But… _Why?”_ Pete implores desperately.

“Because, you scheming piece of shit,” Patrick is all but victory dancing as Pete's back bumps against the island in the centre of the kitchen. “I read in an issue of Cosmo that wearing lingerie should be empowering for the wearer and not something done to please a man.”

“Said no man, ever,” Pete interrupts. “Also, where the fuck did you read Cosmo?”

“Dentist, doctor's office maybe?” Patrick waves a hand impatiently. “Doesn't matter. The point is, you - didn't - win.”

Pete looks thoughtful for a moment, “So you're saying…?”

“This isn't over until you do the fucking laundry,” Patrick takes a step back, two steps, puts a few feet between him and Pete as he pops the button on his jeans, tugs down the zipper and slides his hand inside, presenting the bulge of his cock framed by pale, elegant fingers and topped with soft black lace. Pete _groans_. “And if you want _this_ you'd better get on with it.”

With that he turns on his heel and mouths a silent _“fuck yes”_ to the fruit bowl on the counter, refraining from emphasising it with a fist pump. 

“Patrick…” Pete whimpers.

“Do the laundry,” he repeats. “Dinner’s gonna be about an hour.”

*

For three more days Patrick wakes each morning to find a fresh pair of panties in his underwear drawer. He puts them on without arguing, takes a moment to admire how downright fabulous his ass looks in the lace or satin or silk then drags on his pants and goes about his day.

By the third day, Pete's on his heels like a fucking _dog_ , all but panting and sniffing around his crotch. Eight days without sex and Pete is _crippled._

“Go away, Pete,” Patrick snaps, not looking up from his laptop.

“Just let me suck your cock while you're wearing them,” Pete pleads.

“Go do the laundry,” Patrick counters. “And the dishes. I'm totally past eating off paper plates.”

“Or you could just bend over the desk and let me eat you out,” Pete's brown eyes are wide and pleading. “ _Then _I'll do the laundry.”__

“ _Or_ , and this is just an idea, you could do the fucking laundry and _every other chore you've been ignoring,”_ Patrick reaches for his headphones, pausing just before he pulls them over his ears to smile sarcastically at Pete. “There's a good boy.” 

He watches Pete - though he pretends he's not - watches him stare at him contemplatively for a second as he mouths the words _“good boy”_ thoughtfully and walks away down the hall. Patrick rolls his eyes and turns back to his laptop. 

Pete is surprisingly well behaved. Usually, when Patrick tries to work he gets a solid ten minutes done before that needy little asshole is writhing in his lap and pawing at his dick. Not that he usually _minds_ … but he's been working for close to three hours and Pete is nowhere to be seen. He slips off his headphones - because he needs a drink, _not_ because he's looking for Pete - and heads down the hallway. 

“Pete?” He calls, confused by the silence and lack of grabby hands. “C’mon man, where the fuck are you hiding?” 

“I'm in the kitchen,” Pete's voice drifts from downstairs. 

Patrick jogs down the stairs and into the kitchen, skidding to a stop as Pete glances over at him from the stove, “Oh, hey. Dinner’s gonna be, like, five minutes, so if you want to set the table…" 

"You…” Patrick stammers. “Why're you…” 

“Hmm?” Pete raises an eyebrow in confusion. “Why am I making dinner? You were busy, I just thought…” 

Patrick continues to stare, pretty sure he's no longer capable of using his words. There's a shrill beep from the laundry room - the sound of the dryer completing its cycle. 

“Oh, that'll be the laundry,” Pete brushes past him and Patrick pounces, grabbing Pete by the hips and dragging him flush against him. 

“What,” he begins reverently. “Do you think you're wearing?” 

“The only clean shirt I had left,” Pete tugs at the faded Metallica tank self consciously. As though he doesn't know that Patrick loves the way it shows off his inked arms. As though he honestly thinks that's what Patrick's talking about. 

“Uhuh,” Patrick raises an eyebrow, fingertip dipping into the waistband of the sinful little red lace panties Pete is currently sporting. He's smudged on eyeliner - that fucker - heavy kohl rimming his eyes and sweeping Patrick straight back to sweaty, grubby groping in the back of a beaten up van. “And these?” 

“Only thing clean.” 

"I see,” Patrick's heart is pounding in his ears. 

"I cleaned the house,” Pete steps away and leans back against the counter, hips pushed forward, cock thrust out. “Did the laundry, the dishes. I made dinner…” 

“I can see that,” Patrick leans up against the opposite counter, eyes raking over Pete ravenously. 

“Was I…” Pete pauses, let's his tongue slide over his bottom lip before looking up through thick, dark lashes. “A good boy?” 

“The best,” Patrick confirms with a grin. 

“So I get to suck your cock, right?” Pete is three eager steps towards him before Patrick holds up a hand to stop him. 

“Go fold the laundry. I hate it when it gets all creased in the dryer,” Patrick grins a little wider as Pete pouts. “I'll finish dinner.” 

He assumes Pete intends him to hear the muttered _“god fucking dammit”_ he hisses between gritted teeth as he sways his way into the laundry room. Patrick follows, sees no reason at all why he should deny himself the pleasure of seeing Pete doing his chores in cute red panties. The lace is fine and sheer, pretty expensive Patrick would guess, so there's no mistaking the flash of red between his cheeks as he bends over the dryer door. 

“You've got the plug in,” Patrick blurts out, words stuttering and tumbling over one another as he catches hold of the door frame, one side in each hand, heart thumping a beat against his ribs. 

“I just wanted,” Pete pauses to glance back over his shoulder and Patrick feels his dick jolt in response. “To be a good boy for you.” 

"Oh Pete, baby,” Patrick slides to his knees behind his husband, grabbing his ass with both hands. “You're always a good boy for me.” 

He presses his nose and lips between Pete's cheeks, mouthing around the toy through the lace. One hand slips to Pete's hip, across his groin, cups the heavy swell of his cock through the lace. He's already half hard and getting harder. Patrick's limbs are made of putty, soft and useless as he paws weakly at Pete's cock, rubs his thumb over the soft swell of his balls. 

“Fuck, Trick,” Pete whines, rubbing back against Patrick's eager mouth. “You've gotta fuck me… You've gotta… I've been _such_ a good fucking boy for you…” 

“Dinner’s gonna burn,” Patrick points out, before pressing back in to flicker his tongue against Pete's perineum. Pete - gratifyingly - bucks back with a high squeal. 

“It's been over a week and we're both wearing fucking _panties,”_ he grits out. “I think we'll be good.” 

“Upstairs,” Patrick pants, dragging himself away from Pete and staggering to his feet. They jostle their way to the bedroom, as though getting there first without the other would be a victory, pausing at the side of the bed. Patrick frames Pete's face with his hands, ghosting a kiss to his lips as he murmurs softly. “You look fucking amazing in panties.” 

“Let me see,” Pete whines, pawing at Patrick's jeans. 

“Stop - being - so - impatient...” Patrick pushes him down gently onto the bed. 

Pete props himself on his elbows, legs spread and cock straining the crotch of the red panties indecently. His head seems heavy on his neck as it rolls to follow Patrick as he moves to the head of the bed and slowly, deliberately unbuttons his jeans. Pete groans as each button slips free, Patrick thrills with it, pulses with the electric shock knowledge that he can elicit each naughty little moan from Pete's lips with nothing more than another revealed inch of his body. He reaches into his jeans with sinful intent, eyes fluttering closed as he cups his own hard cock. 

He spreads his legs, eases his jeans a little lower and lifts his cock free. Pete licks at his lips again, rubs a hand over his own crotch and breathes a soft _“holy fucking shit, Trick”_ that warms Patrick through to his very core. 

“Is this what you've been craving, baby?” Patrick purrs, sliding his fingers into Pete's hair and pulling him up, urging his face against his crotch. Pete whimpers his agreement and Patrick is fucking _soaring_ , weightless with desire as Pete licks and sucks at his most sensitive flesh through the sheer black lace, fingers teasing gently against the tight pucker of his ass. “Fuck, you're way too good at that…” 

He drags off his shirt and kicks off his jeans, presenting Pete with his back as he bends to pull off his socks. 

“Fuck, Trick,” Pete's pupils are blown, fingers flexing desperately against the comforter. “Your fucking _ass.”_

“Fucking _amazing_ , right?” Patrick gives a little wiggle and a laugh, backing up into Pete's eager hands and lips. 

“I need you,” Pete whispers simply as he nips lightly at one rounded cheek with his teeth. “I need you so fucking bad…” 

“Bend over for me,” Patrick murmurs, joining Pete on the bed. Pete does as he's told, sliding to his hands and knees, a shiver running the full length of his body as Patrick eases down the panties until the waistband is snagged under cheeks the colour of caramel. “The big plug, huh?” 

“You've got a big cock,” Pete whines into the mattress. “Speaking of…” 

Patrick laughs, low and easy, as he grasps the base of the plug, rolling it in a slow circle before pulling it free. Pete growls in the back of his throat until Patrick replaces the silicone with lube slicked fingers. 

“Patrick…” 

“Shh,” Patrick grins, dropping a kiss between Pete's shoulders. Two fingers, three, he's already prepped from the toy but Patrick can't resist the whisper soft moans he can pull from Pete's lips. 

He lies on his back next to Pete, meeting his eyes with a soft grin - fuck if he doesn't love the stupid, toothy bastard - and runs a hand slowly up Pete's sinewy, tattooed arm. Pete runs his eyes slowly down to Patrick's aching cock, whimpering as Patrick reaches down and slowly shifts the lace to one side, moaning as his dick springs free. 

"Slick me up,” he instructs softly, laughing as Pete fumbles eagerly for the lube. Pete - Patrick knows - gives incredible handjobs. Pete working around soft lace panties gives fucking _insane_ handjobs. Patrick is twisting against the sheets, mouth open and eyes closed as he squeaks and gasps. “Okay, good… We're good..” 

He lunges for Pete's crotch, seizing the lace of Pete's panties between his teeth, pulling it taut between his hands until the soft fibres tense, give and, with a soft whisper of noise, rip apart. Pete's cock is freed as the hole widens Patrick sucks him down, grunting as Pete whines his appreciation, begins to thrust into Patrick's mouth and mumble nonsense about dick sucking lips. Patrick drags at the fabric until the panties are ripped from crotch to ass then pulls back and surveys the effect, Pete's cock dark with blood and framed by tattered red lace. Fucking _delicious._

Patrick lies back once more as Pete slips astride him, he strokes Pete's hips, traces fingertips over that stupid, childish Bartskull and thanks every and any deity that might be listening that he got so fucking lucky to get it right first time. He looks up, meets amber eyes flooded with enough want and need to sweep them both away. He anchors himself with hard, skinny hips under his hands as he holds Pete's gaze and whispers softly. 

“I've got you, let's go.” 

Pete nods, lower lip caught hard between his teeth as he raises his hips and lines Patrick up beneath him. Patrick groans at the sensation of the head of his cock against Pete's tight hole then Pete is sinking down and Patrick is grunting, moaning, begging for everything and more and something after that. It never gets old, sixteen years since he fumbled his way through the whole awkward, messy nonsense of losing his virginity to the fucking glorious asshole currently astride him. Sixteen fucking years and it’s still as fresh as the first time. 

The lace is gently caressing the delicate skin of his testicles, cupping and constricting in interesting ways, the hem of the leg dragging up against his ass where it’s pulled taut to accommodate the release of his cock. Then there’s Pete, hot and tight and riding him like it’s the only thing keeping his heart beating. Sensation is overwhelming Patrick but as Pete starts to fuck into his own fist, the act made even dirtier by the frame of shredded lace and the whimpering moans that fall from his parted lips, he swears he’s going to lose it. 

He changes the angle of Pete’s hips against his own, urging him to brace his weight back, shoving his hips up against each downward thrust until Pete cries out and he knows, he fucking knows, he’s hit that spot. That secret place. _You don’t fight fair_ , Pete would mutter sullenly when Patrick would slip his fingers inside of him while he sucked his cock, getting him off hard and fast. Patrick still smirks when they play that song. 

"Oh fuck, am I… Am I being a good boy for you?” Pete whines. 

“Such a good boy,” Patrick pants, nails digging in hard enough to bruise. “So good, _my_ good boy…” 

Pete clenches around him with the praise, muscles tense and smooth and hot and Patrick pulls completely taut and rigid, the line of a tight bowstring across the bed as his stomach cramps and his thighs tense, hips bucking up under Pete’s frantically. Two more hard thrusts down from Pete and he’s there, shooting his load deep inside of him as he groans desperately, screws his eyes closed and sees fucking _galaxies_ behind closed lids, jabbers endless syllables of heartfelt nonsense, of _PetemyPete_ and _fuckyou'resogoodyou'resuchagoodboy._

Before he can open his eyes Pete is tight above him, a mess of screaming moans and stuttering hips. Patrick forces his eyes open, body loose and supple beneath Pete, hands curled into loose fists either side of his head as he watches Pete come, watches ribbon after ribbon of silky white shoot from his cock and coat his own pale, round stomach, watches it splash and catch in his honey blond chest hair, feels a splash or two hit his cheek, his chin and thinks Pete’s just showing off now. 

Pete collapses forward onto him, saving himself at the last second with hands braced either side of Patrick’s head, lacing their fingers together and squeezing softly. 

“Worth doing the laundry?” Patrick enquires lazily in the moments before Pete’s lips capture his and a minute or more is lost to gentle lips and inquisitive, questing tongues. 

“Oh, is that what that was about?” Pete purrs into his throat, nipping with gentle teeth. “Why didn’t you just say so?” 

"You’re a fucking asshole,” Patrick chuckles softly, breaking a hand free to sift through Pete’s wiry, dark hair. “You know, if you’re gonna rock the eyeliner again you should probably get the bangs back. And one of those god awful Clandestine hoodies.” 

"Go to hell,” Pete growls without malice. “Fuck, can we like, go again or something?” 

“You’re thirty-eight,” Patrick reminds him. “Not twenty-two.” 

“I got stamina,” Pete objects. “I’ll fucking show you, just… Suck my cock for a minute…” 

“Dude, you’ll be lucky if I’m still _conscious_ in a minute-” 

They’re interrupted by the smoke alarm shrieking into life, both jumping upright, Pete with a groan and a muttered _“shit fuck I’m leaking…” _. Patrick rolls his eyes and tosses him his shirt, bolting to the kitchen and wafting a dishtowel under the alarm until the smoke clears enough for it to fall silent.__

____

____

“Well shit,” Pete follows him slowly, still wearing the tattered remnants of the pretty red panties. “I worked really hard on that.” 

“It would have been horrible anyway,” Patrick shrugs, pushing opening the sliding doors. “You can’t cook for shit.” 

“That’s just untrue,” he rummages in the dryer for their boxers, tossing Patrick a pair that are clean and warm and smell of fabric softener. “Pizza?” 

“Pizza,” Patrick agrees, accepting the t-shirt that’s thrown to him and slipping it over his head. 

As they settle on the couch with beer and pizza and something shitty on Netflix, Patrick looks at his husband with undisguised affection. 

“You’re a good boy,” he smirks. “But you make a fucking shitty wife.” 

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you so much for reading. We can all feel a little dumber and sillier together!
> 
> I have a tumblr - sn1tchesandtalkers - that I don't know what to do with. Add me and watch me frown at it like your 96 year old grandma at Christmas.


End file.
